All For One and One For All
by SirLancelotTheBrave
Summary: Oneshots, drabbles, and tumblr fills about our dashing boys. Pairings include Portamis, OT3, and perhaps some Constagnan if I get around to it. May include angst, fluff, humor, and maybe some (very) low-key smut. Leave requests in the comments, or find me on tumblr!
1. Un Mariage de Mousquetaires

**AN: Written for Sorelh for the tumblr prompt: Leave a "Marry Me" in my ask, and I'll write a drabble about a character under the subject of wedlock [be it characters proposing to or marrying another, feel free to specify.] Basically Aramis proposing to Porthos and being adorably nervous about it.**

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><p>"Aramis?" Porthos asked, watching the other man out of the corner of his eye as he wandered restlessly about the deserted armory. "Everythin' alright?"<p>

"Of course_, mon cher_," Aramis said quickly, not meeting his eye. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Porthos shot a suspicious glance at him but didn't push the issue. Aramis had been acting strangely for the last week or so. Shifty, almost paranoid. And every night Porthos had gone looking for him, he'd been out.

"You gonna be around tonight?" he asked instead, watching a guilty look flash across Aramis's face. "Been missin' you, lately."

Aramis's shoulders slumped. "I've just been very busy."

"Yeah?" Porthos asked curiously. "Doin' what?"

Aramis's eyes darted up and away. "Ah, you'll see," he muttered, looking like a cornered animal. "Tonight, in fact, if you could be persuaded to come by?"

Porthos grinned. "Fair enough. Now?"

"Ah, no, no," Aramis said hurriedly. "Wait a few hours, please. There's something I need to do first, alright?"

"Easy, easy," Porthos murmured, placing his hands gently against Aramis's cheeks to try and slow the frantic flood of words. His thumbs made small circular motions against Aramis's cheeks. "I'll come by after dinner, okay?"

Aramis took a deep breath and nodded, smiling abashedly. "Perfect. Sorry about that."

Porthos chuckled. "I'll see ya later, then."

He spent the early hours of the evening gambling in his favorite tavern, and when he judged it to have been long enough, collected his winnings and made his way to Aramis's lodgings, grumbling to himself that Aramis should've picked a place nearer the garrison.

He paused at the door, struck by an odd sense of hesitation. Something, somehow, felt different tonight. Porthos never bothered to knock at Aramis's door, but tonight he lifted his hand and rapped smartly against the wood.

He was rewarded with the sound of something clattering to the ground within. "Aramis? You alright in there?"

"I'm fine!" came the somewhat desperate reply. "Just a moment!"

A minute later the door was flung open by a very harried looking Aramis. "Porthos," he said by way of greeting, and his voice had an odd, breathless quality. "Hello."

"Hello yourself," Porthos chuckled, stepping into the apartment. "What's with all the candles?"

Candles seemed to cover every available surface, winking brightly at him. "God above, Aramis, what're you wastin' all those for?"

Aramis drew himself up with a strangely determined expression. "I am no wasting them, _mon cher_," he said firmly. "There is a method to my madness."

Porthos glanced over at him. "Oh? What, am I bein' wooed?"

Aramis shifted, looking nervous again. "Not… not exactly. Um. Oh dear. This went better in my head."

Porthos tipped his head, watching Aramis get steadily more flustered. "Hey, what is it? What's going on?"

Aramis shifted again, hand fiddling in his pocket. "I, um, well… I wanted to ask you something."

Porthos grinned, moving to sit on the bed. "Ask away."

He expected a proposition for some unusual position or something of the sort, so the small pouch Aramis withdrew from his pocket came as something of a surprise.

"Aramis…?"

"I know we can't do it properly," Aramis said suddenly, the words spilling from his lips faster than Porthos could follow, "because we'd be, I don't know, burned at the stake, and it won't be official, and we can't wear them like normal people do, but I thought I would ask anyway, and it's okay if you don't want to, I just-"

Porthos had risen from the bed and set his hands firmly on Aramis's shoulders. "Whoa," he murmured, chuckling. "Slow down. What are you askin', exactly?"

Aramis stared at him for a moment, eyes wide with nerves, and then he upended the pouch into his palm.

Two rings glinted at him, silver against Aramis's tanned skin.

"Oh," Porthos said, utterly thrown. This was new.

"Like I said, it's alright if you don't want to," Aramis muttered nervously, half closing his fist over the bands. "But I- I want to."

"Are you askin' me to… to marry you?" Porthos asked quietly. "Because that's impossible, you know."

"I know," Aramis said quickly, flushing. "Legally, at any rate. And we could tell anyone, except maybe Athos and D'Artagnan. But I always wanted to get married. God just decided it wasn't going to be to a woman."

Aramis's smile was fragile, and Porthos realized he was still waiting for a response.

"So which one's mine, then?" he asked gruffly, and watched the trepidation burst into joy on Aramis's face.

"This one," Aramis said excitedly, pointing to the thicker of the two bands. Porthos picked it up. The underside of the band was stamped with a fleur-de-lis.

It fit the index finger of his right hand perfectly.

"Thought these were meant to go on a ring finger?" he asked, still staring at the simple band.

Aramis frowned slightly. "I thought that might be a bit too obvious. I can get another if you prefer…?"

"No," Porthos said quickly. "I like it."

He reached out and picked up Aramis's ring as well. It was slightly thinner than his own. "May I?" he asked solemnly.

Aramis nodded, dark eyes glittering in the firelight.

Porthos slipped the ring neatly over the middle finger of Aramis's left hand.

"That it, then?" he asked gruffly, trying to disguise the way his heart seemed to be swelling in his chest. He had never thought to have this.

Aramis's smirk was full of his usual confidence. "Not quite, _mon cher_," he purred. "I believe a kiss is the traditional way to seal the union."

Porthos grinned at him and stepped closer, tangling the fingers of his right hand with Aramis's left.

"Looks like you're stuck with me now," he murmured, and Aramis smiled.

"Gladly, _mon cher_," he replied, leaning in to kiss him.

It was sweet, and beautiful, and it promised forever.


	2. In Vino Veritas

**AN: Written for ComeHitherAshes for the tumblr prompt:** **Leave a "Drink Me" in my ask, and I will write a drabble about characters drinking, alone or with each other. Slight smut at the end of the chapter.**

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><p>"Sing me a song," Aramis suggested, the words heavy with the two bottles of wine he alone had already consumed this evening. It was a testament to how much more Athos had polished off that he even paused to consider the idea.<p>

"No-oo," he said, the word exaggeratedly drawn out to keep it from slurring. "I don't so think." He stopped and tried again. "Don't think so."

Porthos grinned at the exchange and took another swig of wine, secure in the knowledge that he was still the least drunk of the lot of them. "I wanna 'ear Athos sing," he sniggered, enjoying the dark look Athos sent his way a little too much. "Seein' as I ain't gotta carry your drunken asses back home anyway." He cast a satisfied look around Aramis's apartment.

"I do not sing," Athos said with as much dignity as a man three bottles in could muster.

"Pleeeaaasseeee _mon cher_," Aramis said, eyes wide and pleading in the firelight. "It would make me so happy."

Porthos nearly choked on his wine. If Aramis had looked at _him_ like that, there'd have been no question of him getting whatever he wanted.

"No," Athos said shortly, but his determination was visibly weakening. He took another long swig of wine, presumably to hide the vulnerability.

Unfortunately Aramis was like a bloodhound when it came to locating chinks in a person's armor. "My leg is acting up again," Aramis said with a long suffering sigh, flopping back against the pillows they'd propped up behind him. "If only I had something to distract me…"

Porthos had to fight not to laugh aloud at the blatant attempt at manipulation, but it seemed Athos was slightly too drunk to notice it. His face darkened again before settling into something akin to resignation.

"I will not sing," he said stiffly, the words sounding more sure than they had moments before. "However," he added before Aramis's face could fall, "I will recite something for you."

Aramis's smile would've put the sun to shame. Even Athos seemed speechless for a moment.

"Oh, please," Aramis cried, his excitement contagious. Porthos grinned eagerly and leaned forward as Athos sighed deeply.

"Very well. Would a sonnet satisfy you?" he asked with mock weariness. Aramis nodded quickly and Porthos smirked. He would want a love poem.

Athos took a long swig of wine and began, "_Per fare una leggiadra sua vendetta_…"

Porthos leaned back against the wall, hand resting on Aramis's uninjured thigh, content to simply listen to the way Athos's rich voice wrapped rhythmically around the unknown words and watch the way Aramis's face flushed in the firelight.

"That was beautiful," Aramis breathed when Athos stopped at last. "Thank you,_ mio caro_."

"What language was that?" Porthos asked, the slightly rough edge to his voice making it embarrassingly obvious how much the recitation had affected him.

Athos smiled, looking smug at the proof. "Italian," he replied, glancing at Aramis. "I didn't think you spoke that one."

"I know enough," Aramis murmured, pushing himself a bit further up the bed.

"Oi, sit still," Porthos said when Aramis suddenly winced. "Thought that was the whole point of us comin' here and getting' drunk, to keep you from wanderin' about on that leg."

"I thought it was for the pleasure of my company," Aramis said, his voice laden with mock affront. "You wound me, _querido_."

Porthos grinned at him. "Sorry."

"You don't sound very sorry," Athos pointed out, glancing from him to Aramis. "Maybe he ought to offer you something to prove how sorry he is, _mon cher_."

Porthos shot him a look warning him to shut up. Athos merely raised an eyebrow.

Ah, this was payback for encouraging Aramis earlier.

"Perhaps he should sing," Athos suggested, his eyes glimmering wickedly.

"An excellent idea!" Aramis cried, turning those blasted brown eyes on him. "Please, sing to me."

"I got a better idea," Porthos said hastily, trying to get it out before Aramis could flash him one of those irresistible pleading looks.

"Oh?" Aramis asked, a smirk flashing across his handsome face. "Pray tell."

Porthos shot him a grin and inched his hand higher.

"_Oh_," Aramis breathed, smirk deepening into a sensual smile. "I believe I prefer his offer, Athos."

Porthos glanced at Athos and found him staring at them hungrily. "As do I, _mon cher_," Athos said, his voice rough.

Porthos took one last swig before setting his wine bottle down on the side table. Athos drew his chair closer to the bed, blue eyes watching them intently as Porthos shifted to straddle Aramis's hips.

Aramis grinned up at him in delight. He leaned down, brushing his lips along the shell of Aramis's ear.

"You're gonna have to hold very still for this…"

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><p>The poem is a sonnet of Petrarch's. In English, it goes as follows:<p>

_To make a graceful act of revenge,  
>and punish a thousand wrongs in a single day,<br>Love secretly took up his bow again,  
>like a man who waits the time and place to strike.<em>

_My power was constricted in my heart,_  
><em>making defence there, and in my eyes,<em>  
><em>when the mortal blow descended there,<em>  
><em>where all other arrows had been blunted.<em>

_So, confused by the first assault,_  
><em>it had no opportunity or strength<em>  
><em>to take up arms when they were needed,<em>

_or withdraw me shrewdly to the high,_  
><em>steep hill, out of the torment,<em>  
><em>from which it wishes to save me now but cannot.<em>


	3. A Poca a Poca

**AN: For the tumblr prompt from WizzKiz - Hey there, you lovely thing, you. I don't suppose there's any chance for a fluffy-friendly ficlet about the boys, where Aramis and Athos are competing to see who's taller, and Porthos and d'Artagnan are just despairing? Bonus points if they start cheating!**

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><p>It was D'Artagnan who first noticed that something was different. "Aramis?" he asked, frowning slightly at the older Musketeer. "Did you get taller?"<p>

D'Artagnan saw Athos and Porthos turn curious gazes on their friend. "Don't be ridiculous," Aramis scoffed.

"He's right," Porthos chuckled. "You were shorter than Athos yesterday."

"I was not!" Aramis huffed indignantly.

Athos sniffed. "Of course you were. By about a quarter of an inch. Come now Aramis, we all know this."

"I don't know what you're all talking about," Aramis said, a little too breezily. D'Artagnan ducked his head, glancing at Aramis's boots and grinning when his suspicions were confirmed.

"He's raised the heels on his boots," he smirked.

"I would never!" Aramis protested hotly, but Porthos was already leaping on the opportunity.

"You did, didn't you? Ha! What's wrong, tired of being the shortest one all the time?" he teased. Aramis shot him a glare that could rival Athos's, but Porthos only laughed.

"Really, Aramis, don't you think that's a bit childish?" Athos asked disdainfully.

Aramis flashed him a charming smile, recovering magnificently from his discovery. "It's the newest fashion, _mon ami_. Soon everyone will be doing it."

D'Artagnan snorted at the disgruntled look on Athos's face, but before the older Musketeer could respond, Treville called to them from his office.

As D'Artagnan followed Athos up the stairs, he didn't miss the way his friend kept eying Aramis's extra height with dissatisfaction.

He had a feeling this wasn't over.

The next morning, Athos had gained an quarter inch on Aramis once more.

Aramis gaped at him, a look of incredulity crossing his face for a moment before he recovered his poise. "_Mon ami_, may I complement you on your foray into the grand world of fashion?" The edge of his mouth seemed to twitch, and D'Artagnan hid a grin at his friend's obvious displeasure. Next to Aramis, Porthos was looking like his birthday had come early.

Athos smiled blithely. "Why thank you, Aramis. I thought perhaps it time I rejoined proper society."

Aramis flashed him another charming smile and brushed past him to report to Treville, the faint line across his forehead betraying his irritation.

When Aramis arrived at the tavern that evening, he had a full half inch on Athos.

"Don't you think this is getting a bit ridiculous?" D'Artagnan whispered to Porthos as they went to fetch the wine.

"Are you kidding?" Porthos asked, a gleeful look on his face. "This is fantastic!"

"But they won't be able to walk soon!" D'Artagnan pointed out, a chuckle rising from his chest at the thought.

Porthos just grinned delightedly.

Treville had given them the next day off, but when D'Artagnan arrived at the garrison the following morning it was to find that Athos had raised his heels a whole inch. They now looked not so much like boots as lady's shoes. He glared at them all as if daring them to say anything.

Porthos took that dare.

"Can you even walk?" he asked, poorly restrained laughter coloring his voice.

Athos sniffed. "Of course I can."

Before Porthos could demand he prove it, Aramis arrived, walking more slowly than usual. D'Artagnan glanced between him and Athos and realized the pair of them had managed to lift themselves to precisely the same height.

He tried to hold back his giggles as they stared blankly at one another. Each one was several inches taller than normal, at about the same height he was. He caught Porthos's eye and failed to suppress a bark of laughter at his friend's thrilled look.

Treville took one look at them, shook his head, and sent them off to patrol the streets, muttering something about 'useless children.'

As it turned out, neither man could walk effectively with their ridiculous heels, though Athos was managing slightly better, having been taller to start with. Their progress through the streets was slow, and D'Artagnan worried Porthos would pull a muscle from trying to restrain his laughter.

"One of you ought to just give up," D'Artagnan told them, the corners of his mouth twitching furiously at the enraged looks they both shot his way.

"My dear boy, whatever can you mean?" Athos asked.

Aramis nodded sagely. "The heat must have gone to his head."

He went to step forward down the street, nose held in the air like a particularly snooty noble, but his heel twisted awkwardly beneath him and he dropped to the dust in an ungainly heap.

Porthos moved towards him, a line of worry creasing his brow, and D'Artagnan guessed he thought Aramis had hurt himself. But the furious blush that had risen to Aramis's cheeks told him the only thing his friend had wounded was his pride.

He sent a pleading look up at the larger Musketeer looming over him. It was the most intentionally pitiful thing D'Artagnan had ever seen, and Porthos had always been wrapped around Aramis's finger. With a brief apologetic glance at Athos, he leaned down and swept Aramis off the ground and onto his back in one smooth move, his face breaking into a pleased grin at Aramis's hoot of joy.

Athos glared at Porthos as if he had committed some grievous sin while Aramis preened. "Now who's taller?" he taunted gleefully, apparently forgetting his feigned ignorance of the past few days.

"Forward, _mon cher_!" he shouted happily, and Porthos obeyed with an easy smile, striding off down the street with Aramis perched on his shoulders, waving back at them smugly.

Athos stared after him darkly for a moment. Then D'Artagnan felt his gaze land squarely on him.

"No," he said firmly, backing away. "Athos, no! Not a chance."

Athos raised an eyebrow and gestured imperiously, motioning towards the ground just in front of him. D'Artagnan groaned but submitted, allowing Athos to clamber onto his back.

"This is hardly dignified," he muttered irritably.

"Hush," Athos said, sounding so imperial that D'Artagnan nearly dropped him for the hell of it. It wouldn't be worth what Athos would put him through in training that evening though.

Porthos had paused up ahead, and he and Aramis were watching with twin grins of utter delight as D'Artagnan attempted to stagger forward and join them. He made it three meters before deciding that this was not what he had signed up for.

In one smooth motion, he flopped to the dust, falling in such a way that Athos rolled off of him. He lay there, sprawled over the ground and grinning up at Porthos, whose eyes were twinkling mischievously.

A few seconds later, Aramis joined them on the ground.

Porthos stood over them all, roaring with laughter. D'Artagnan joined him, ignoring the poisonous glares the other two shot them.

At last Porthos subsided, wiping at his eyes. "Have you two seen the error of your ways yet?" he asked, a smile still playing about his lips.

"I don't know what you mean," Athos said, his voice stiff. Aramis just glared mutinously.

Porthos shrugged, looking unconcerned. "Alright then." He leaned down and yanked the boots from Aramis's feet, doing the same to Athos a moment later. Both men rose from the dust irately, but Porthos dangled the offending articles just out of reach.

"If you two want to behave like kids, I'm gonna have to take your toys away," he said, grinning impishly. Without waiting for a response, he hurled the boots over the nearest wall.

Athos and Aramis gaped at him as D'Artagnan dropped is head back against the ground, choking on dust as he laughed uncontrollably.

Porthos dusted his hands off, looking pleased with himself. "That's that, then." He reached down and hauled D'Artagnan to his feet.

Athos still looked displeased, but Aramis looked distressed. "Porthos," he said despairingly. "I was using coins to make the heels taller!"

Porthos's grin slipped for a moment, and he looked guilty. "Why'd you go and do that, eh?"

Aramis shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "I didn't have anything else! I didn't think they would get thrown into a garden."

Athos yawned, looking bored. "Stop worrying. I'll compensate you."

Aramis shot him a grateful smile, earlier enmity forgotten. "Thank you, _mon ami_."

"Don't mention it," Athos said lightly. "Just promise you'll stop trying to be taller, and we'll call it even."

Porthos smiled, looking relieved that he hadn't accidentally cost Aramis his savings. "Best get back to the garrison to change. Can't have these two wandering about Paris with no boots on, can we?"

Aramis and Athos exchanged a look that promised revenge, then turned as one to smile wolfishly at Porthos and D'Artagnan, who stepped quickly behind the larger Musketeer.

He had a feeling this wasn't over.

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><p><strong>Liked it? Have a request? Let me know in the comments!<strong>


	4. Rehearsals

**Written to fill Raouldehadleyfraser's prompt on tumblr for the boys practicing their little deception. And being adorable about it.  
><strong>

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><p>D'Artagnan collapsed to the dust with a drawn out moan.<p>

"Athos!" Aramis cried broken-heartedly. "You've killed him!" He sounded distraught, and his eyes widened with horror.

Of course, the effect was greatly ruined by the smile playing about the edges of his mouth.

Athos sighed, swiping a hand across his face as D'Artagnan began giggling on the ground. "Can no one take this seriously?" he asked the silent forest around them. Porthos began chuckling as well.

"Oh, come off it, Athos," Porthos grinned, reaching down to haul D'Artagnan back to his feet. "It's just a bit of fun."

Athos glared at him. "Need I remind you that this needs to fool one of the most deadly murderesses in France?" he asked icily.

D'Artagnan adopted a mock serious face and nodded earnestly, though Aramis had yet to finish chuckling. "Yes, Athos," they chorused. Athos rolled his eyes heavenward, praying for strength.

"Alright, let's try this again." Athos stepped into position and went through the rehearsed dialogue, accusing D'Artagnan of betraying him and pulling out a gun to shoot him. It all went well until the moment he was actually supposed to fire the shot.

Porthos threw back his head and shouted "BANG," with gleeful abandon, and D'Artagnan swooned like a maiden, dropping daintily to the dirt with one hand lying implausibly across his forehead in an utterly ridiculous pose.

"Nooooooo!" Aramis cried dramatically, dropping to his knees beside the youngest Musketeer and pulling his limp form into his lap. "He was so young, Athos, so young!"

Porthos quickly joined in. "How could you, you brute!" he yelled, cradling D'Artagnan's head as the boy began to cackle.

Athos groaned. "Please, just once, can we try to do it right just once?" he ground out.

"Ahh, don't be so serious," Porthos said, waving a hand dismissively as he pulled Aramis to his feet, leaning casually on the smaller man's shoulder. Aramis just grinned cheekily at him.

"Sorry, Athos," D'Artagnan muttered, having the grace to at least look ashamed.

"Let's try it again," Athos sighed. He supposed he ought to be grateful he hadn't insisted on one of them playing Anne's role. He wasn't sure he could handle that much aggravation in one evening.

It went better this time. Aramis and Porthos played their roles to the letter, and Athos felt his stomach clench with unease at the thought of actually performing this little charade. He raised the stick they were using as a gun, thinking of all the things that could go wrong. What if he killed D'Artagnan accidentally?

In retrospect, he should have known such a perfect attempt was too good to be true. Just before he pulled the 'trigger' D'Artagnan's eyes glinted mischievously

He flopped to the ground, sprawling in the dust with an overzealous groan. Then he curled into a ball, clutching dramatically at his stomach and whimpering outrageously.

Athos glared at him as the boy met his eye, but for once D'Artagnan was uncowed.

"Athos!" he cried theatrically, half rising only to flop back again. "How could you do this to me? You were my _best friend_! I thought you loved me!"

Aramis and Porthos were snickering, and despite himself Athos could feel his lips twitching. D'Artagnan rolled across the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.

"You have betrayed me!" he shouted mournfully. "Dying, I am dying! Aramis, Porthos, avenge me, if ever I meant anything to you!"

The two men in question dropped to their knees beside him, all pretense of grief gone as they howled with laughter at the boy's theatrics.

D'Artagnan twitched in the dust for a few moments more and at last fell back, letting out a ridiculously long death rattle that ended with another spasm. His head flopped to the side, his tongue sticking out like a dog's.

Then he began to shake again, this time with laughter as his eyes snapped open once more. Porthos had his hands braced against the ground, laughter still rumbling out of him, and Aramis's breath was coming in wheezes as he clutched Porthos's shoulder for support.

Athos found himself grinning stupidly at the antics, his earlier discomfort gone. They would have to do it for real eventually, but for now the infantile way his brothers were treating the matter made the whole thing much more bearable.

He threw up his hands in defeat and tossed the stick aside, pulling a bottle of wine from the saddle bags. The other three scrambled to their feet immediately, eyeing him hopefully, so he sighed and pulled out a second bottle.

"Children, the lot of you," he said, shaking his head, but he couldn't keep the affection from his voice. His brothers just grinned at him and began squabbling over the bottle as Athos wandered over to the fire and sat down, smirking to himself at their antics.

A few moments later they joined him, Porthos clutching the bottle with a triumphant smile while Aramis attempted to wheedle it away. D'Artagnan shot Athos a pleading glance, an expression remarkably like that of a puppy on his face. Athos rolled his eyes and handed over the bottle.

Aramis had convinced Porthos to share and held aloft his bottle, smiling. "To excellent plans!"

Porthos snatched it away, smirking when Aramis squawked in displeasure. "To taking down the Cardinal!"

D'Artagnan grinned and added, "To fine wine!"

Athos chuckled and took the bottle back. "To brothers." Three faces grinned at him as he drank, and he heard Aramis and Porthos begin arguing over their bottle again.

He sat back, permitting D'Artagnan to swipe his bottle once more. The future would come, and it would be grim, but for tonight, he could allow himself some happiness.

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><p><strong>Liked it? Let me know in the reviews!<strong>

**I've included the original request below since I took a lot of the dialogue directly from it (to be fair, it was almost a fic already, I basically only wrote the details):**

Okay so I already posted this on the kinkmeme but:

rehearsals for the boy's plan to shoot d'Art and fool Milady

They all meet secretly in the woods or somewhere discreet and improvise until they get it right, but d'Art keeps flopping to the ground dramatically every time that Athos pretends to shoot him, swooning like a pretty maiden and all that.

Then when he's on the floor he'll clutch at his stomach and groan and whimper like a wounded animal and be like

"But you were my _best friend_, Athos, how could you do this to meeeee? I thought you loved me? I AM BETRAYED. DYING I AM DYING ARAMIS, PORTHOS AVENGE ME, IF I EVER MEANT ANYTHING TO YOU"

And the other two who are supposed to be hovering worriedly over him just collapse in fits of giggles next to him whilst Athos sighs and is like "can we please be serious for a moment - we do have to fool the most deceiving of murderesses here?" but he secretly loves that his friends are such dorks about it because it makes the whole thing so much more bearable


	5. La Cécité Part I

**AN: Written for Sorelh's prompt on tumblr:**_  
><strong>I would love to read a fic in which Aramis and Porthos are lovers and during a combat Porthos gets hurt and he temporarily loses his sight. And he is scared he will never see again, and most of all scared he will become a burden to Aramis, that Aramis will leave him. But of course, Aramis would never do such a thing; he is there for him, taking care of him, reassuring him, comforting him… well, simply loving him.<strong>_

**This was meant to be a short prompt fill and is now pushing five chapters... Whoops ;)**

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><p>The blow came out of nowhere.<p>

One moment everything was going well. The mission seemed to be a success. Athos and D'Artagnan were rounding up the last of the criminals while he and Aramis freed the remaining prisoners. It was always a relief to end a mission with no injuries, and from the easy way Aramis was bantering with the freed hostages, flirting cheekily with the women, that he was just as relieved as Porthos.

He should have known it was too easy.

Aramis's shouted warning reached him just a second too late. He only had time to turn into the blow before the hilt of the blade struck the side of his head with enough force to drop him first to his knees, then send him sprawling into the dirt, thoughts constricting to a narrow point as the pain filled his consciousness.

He was vaguely aware of Aramis dispatching his attacker, and his frantic demands that _he wake up, answer me dammit, Porthos, please_, but he couldn't respond. All he could feel was the pain and the nausea beginning to churn in his stomach.

Everything was black, and he found a vague, disconnected part of him wondering why he could still hear everything going on around him if he was unconscious. The pounding in his head had reached a crescendo, but even through the dizzying drumming in his ears he was aware that he would not be in pain if he were unconscious, so he must be awake.

Maybe something was blocking his eyes.

Aramis's demands were beginning to verge on terrified, and the tiny part of him holding onto awareness through the pain knew he had to do something to reassure him. Swallowing the nausea as best he could, he opened his mouth.

"'r'm's," he croaked, his tongue feeling too heavy in his mouth. He wished he could open his eyes, see Aramis's face, but they didn't seem to be cooperating.

It seemed his weak attempt had been enough, though. "Porthos?" Aramis asked immediately, and he felt hands on his face. His head was lifted gently from the ground until it rested against something warm and soft. He realized Aramis had pulled him into his lap.

"Porthos?" he repeated again, his voice still tinged with fear, and Porthos nodded clumsily, the movement sending pain forking across his skull. "'m 'ere," he slurred. "Wha's on m'eyes?"

"What's on your eyes?" Aramis repeated, sounding confused. Porthos felt fingertips on his cheeks once more, felt his eyelids flutter when Aramis's fingers ghosted over them.

Wait.

His eyes were _open_.

He blinked again, just to be sure, but there was no denying it. He could feel his eyelids moving, but all he could see was darkness.

"Porthos?" Aramis's voice was thick with concern, and he realized his breathing had sped up. "What's wrong?"

Porthos shot out a hand, scrabbling desperately at the air for a moment before his fingers connected with Aramis's jacket. He grabbed a handful of jacket and shirt and twisted his hand into a tight fist, trying to ground himself against the pain and the icy fear now shooting through him.

"Can't see," he whispered.

Aramis's breath left him with a hiss and he bent forward, hands lifting Porthos's eyelids. Porthos let himself be examined, trying to keep his thoughts away from the word trying to shove its way through the pounding in his skull.

"Anythin'?" he asked, and his voice sounded like a whimper through the buzzing in his ears.

Aramis's hesitation spoke volumes. "Your eyes are bloodshot. Like they're… bleeding… from _within_."

Porthos's hand on Aramis's shirt jerked convulsively as his brain tried to supply the word he was so desperately trying to ignore.

"It gonna stop?" he asked, not caring how weak he sounded in that moment.

Aramis's fingers slipped to rest against his jaw, as if offering comfort.

"I don't know."

The confession sounded as if it were torn from him, falling from his lips with all the weight of the executioner's axe.

"No," he moaned, shaking his head despite the pain it caused him. Welcoming it, because even pain was better than this reality. "'m blind."

"We don't know that," Aramis said, but his voice was desperate and shaky and gave Porthos no comfort. "We'll find a proper physician to consult. We'll get through this. Porthos?"

He didn't answer. His brain was caught in a loop, the word _blind_ chanting inside his head in time with the drumbeat pounding within his skull. He heard Athos's voice, and D'Artagnan's. He heard Aramis cut off their questions with sharp orders, and then felt hands on his shoulders.

Someone tried to lift him into a sitting position. His head spun sickeningly even without his vision and his stomach rebelled. He listed to the side and fell against someone's chest. He heard Aramis's voice for a second, sounding terrified and lost, but the pain was too great to reply, and after a moment the rest of his mind joined his vision in darkness.

* * *

><p>Porthos woke to darkness. He wondered for a moment if Aramis had forgotten to light the candle again. He tried to turn his head to look about and pain shot through his skull, bringing it all back with agonizing clarity.<p>

He was blind.

He could feel a strip of fabric knotted around his head. It sent nausea rolling through him as he remembered the beggars in the court with their bandaged eyes.

Porthos spent a long moment just breathing around the pain and the nausea and the panic creeping into his chest. He was so focused on keeping himself steady that he didn't pick up on the fact that he wasn't alone until someone shifted beside him.

He hated himself for the way he recoiled, startled into flinching away from the sound as he scrambled into a sitting position despite the pain in his head, his back resting against a wall he should have known was there. His apartment, then.

"It's just me," Aramis said softly, and he'd _known_ that, he had, but knowing it would be Aramis hadn't helped the sudden shock.

"Sorry," he offered after a moment. He wanted to reach out and touch Aramis, ground himself against something solid, but he couldn't bear the thought of groping helplessly like a blind beggar in the streets.

A moment later Aramis's hand came to rest against his shoulder, and he found himself pathetically grateful for the way the other man had always been able to read his mind.

He raised his own hand and followed the length of Aramis's arm until he figured out where Aramis was sitting on the bed.

He felt the mattress dip as Aramis shifted closer, and used the sound to bring his other hand up to catch hold of Aramis's shirt, pulling him closer still.

"Aramis…" he murmured, the security of knowing there was no one else to hear breaking down his defenses and turning the name into a quivering, uncertain thing.

And then Aramis was in his arms, pressing him heavily back against the wall with his warm weight, and the tight knot in Porthos's chest eased a bit as he buried his face blindly in the crook of Aramis's neck, clutching his lover against him like a lifeline.

Aramis's arms were tight about his waist, his cheek pressing against Porthos's hair on the uninjured side of his head while his hands were made small circles against his back.

"What am I gonna do now?" he asked after a moment, not lifting his head. With his eyes closed, he could pretend like he had nothing worse than a terrible headache after a long night of drunken indulgence.

"The king's personal physician came by," Aramis told him quietly. "Treville sorted that out somehow. He said there's a chance it won't be permanent."

"How big a chance?" Porthos asked, not daring to hope. He couldn't, he couldn't start hoping, not when his hopes could be so cruelly dashed.

Aramis didn't answer. "Not much, then," he muttered into Aramis's neck, fingers tightening where they were still twisted in the back of Aramis's shirt.

"We mustn't give up hope, _querido_," Aramis murmured.

"Easy for you to say," Porthos said bitterly. Aramis's fingers stilled their motions, and he instantly regretted his harsh tone.

"Sorry," he sighed.

He felt Aramis shake his head. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he said seriously. "I know it will be hard for you to hold onto that hope. So I will simply have to hope enough for the pair of us."

Porthos's lips curved into a half smile, knowing Aramis would have that deadly earnest look in his eyes right now even without his vision.

"Deal," he whispered, touched despite himself, and pressed a kiss to Aramis's neck.

Aramis's grip tightened for a moment before he drew back slightly. "I will need to check your wound, _mon cher_," he said regretfully. "I stitched it as pretty as you like, but better safe than sorry."

Porthos snorted, taking comfort in the familiar routine as Aramis's hands went to the bandage wrapped around his head and began to unwind it. He kept his own planted firmly on Aramis's hips, grounding himself.

"So why's this other bandage on my eyes, anyway?" he asked to distract himself.

"The physician mentioned they might heal faster if they were kept closed," Aramis murmured. "Hold still."

Porthos hissed when the cloth tugged at his wound and felt Aramis's hand trail apologetically down his jaw before resuming his task.

"You've got a bump the size of a chicken egg, but the stitches are holding and it's already beginning to scab over," Aramis told him, winding a clean bandage around once more. "It should heal quickly. How do you feel? Dizzy? Nauseous?"  
>Porthos shrugged as his hands tugged lightly on Aramis's hips, drawing him closer once more. "Bit sick, but not as bad as I woulda expected," he admitted.<p>

He could feel Aramis's thoughtful gaze. "Perhaps the lack of sight mitigates those effects," he suggested. "If you can't see the world spinning, perhaps the nausea would be less severe."

Porthos bit his lips to keep from snarling at the phrase 'lack of sight.' _Call it what it is. Blindness._

"Your lodgings are small enough that you should be able to get around unassisted once your head has healed, and then all we have to do is wait until your vision returns as well," Aramis said, his voice gratingly cheerful. "You might be a bit bored for a time, but I'm sure-"

"What if it doesn't go away?" Porthos asked, his voice sounding terribly small. "What if I'm… blind… forever? Then what?"

He clenched his hands into fists, trying to breathe past the fear clutching at his chest. The thought of living without his sight was terrifying. He would lose his place as a Musketeer, lose his purpose in life. A blind man couldn't fight. And slowly but surely he would lose his friends too. D'Artagnan, Athos… _Aramis_.

"Porthos, breathe!" Aramis's voice cut sharply through his thoughts, edged with alarm, and he obeyed instinctively. Fingers rough with callouses cupped his jaw, rubbing soothingly across his cheeks below the bandage.

"I don't know what will happen," Aramis admitted softly. "But the Captain has promised you a place in our ranks for as long as you live."

Porthos's heart clenched with gratitude at the words, but he said nothing, not trusting himself to speak, unsure of how to tell Aramis what it was he most feared.

"And even if you never see again," Aramis went on, shifting closer to him, "You will still have me. You will never be alone, _mon cœur_."

Aramis's lips pressed suddenly against his neck, and Porthos let himself breathe a little easier. The fear faded, but it did not vanish.

What use was a blind Musketeer?

* * *

><p><strong>So I don't know much about concussions, but some research I did suggested that a hard blow to the head could cause something called a vitreous hemorrhage, which is basically when the blood vessels in your eyes bleed into the jellylike substance between your pupil and retina. According to the internet, this can cause temporary blindness that usually clears up over time with minimal problems, so that's what I've gone with here. If I'm wrong, or anyone knows more, please don't hesitate to correct me!<strong>

**Also, as a disclaimer, I know nothing about what it is like to be blind, and I don't mean to offend anybody. Porthos's mindset is simply meant to reflect the fears and self-doubt of a man who's place in the world is dependent on his sight.**

**More chapters will be forthcoming. For now, let me know what you thought in the reviews!**


	6. La Cécité Part II

**AN: Porthos's thoughts get pretty dark in this section, just a heads up.**

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><p>By the time Athos and D'Artagnan came by later that morning, Aramis had coaxed him to his feet and had him taking careful steps around the room. His head ached, but not as badly as he'd expected.<p>

Aramis was of the opinion that the blindness was lessening the effects of the concussion, staving off the dizziness and nausea that normally accompanied a blow to the head. He was being overly cheerful about it, but Porthos found it eased the tight knot in his stomach to hear Aramis blathering on about how well he was doing.

He wasn't doing well, not really. When someone opened the door, the unexpected noise startled him. He stepped back, into Aramis, and nearly sent them both crashing to the ground.

"Sorry!" cried D'Artagnan's dismayed voice. "Why are the hinges so loose on that door?"

Despite himself, Porthos grinned a bit at that. "Maybe if you didn't go throwing it open like a madman, the hinges wouldn't be broken," he chuckled.

"Our sincerest apologies," Athos said dryly. Porthos grinned despite himself, relieved that Athos's tone held none of the pity he had feared to hear. "Shouldn't you be resting?"

"He says it doesn't hurt, and I believe him," Aramis said loyally, shoving him gently forward to stand on his own once more. "We're being careful, mother."

Athos snorted, and Porthos knew he would be rolling his eyes. Not being able to see it was unexpectedly painful.

"We are on our way to the trial for the men who attacked you," he said, amusement still tingeing the serious tone. "I thought to stop in and see how things were going."

"As well as can be expected," Aramis told him quietly. "You'll return after?"

Porthos missed Athos's response as bitterness swept through him unexpectedly, dousing the cheer he'd been clinging to for Aramis's sake. As well as could be expected, considering he was blind and helpless as a babe.

He kept his mouth shut while Athos and D'Artagnan bid them farewell. He could sense their concern at his silence, but to his gratitude they did not push him to speak as they left.

Aramis's hand on his elbow told him they were alone again, but when his lover tried to urge him into walking some more, he yanked his arm free.

"I'm done for today, I think," he muttered.

"Are you tired?" Aramis asked, instantly concerned, but the worry in his tone only served to blacken Porthos's mood further.

"I'm fine," he snapped, stepping blindly in the direction of the bed. When Aramis's hand fell on his arm once more to steady him, he wrenched it free and growled, "Don't touch me."

His foot connected with something solid and he stumbled. He would've fallen flat on his face had Aramis not caught him around the waist, taking an elbow to what felt like his chest for his pains.

"Let me go," he growled, but his heart wasn't in it. Was this to be his life from now on? Stumbling over his own feet, unable to walk without a hand on his shoulder?

Aramis ignored him, pressing closer and wrapping his arms about his waist. His chin rested on his shoulder as he spoke quietly. "Patience, _querido_. This will get easier."

"I don't want it to get easier," he snapped.

"I know," Aramis sighed, pressing a kiss to his neck. "Let me take a look at your eyes. Perhaps there's been some improvement."

He heaved a sigh but allowed Aramis to lead him to the bed and sit him down on the edge before unwinding the linen bandage wrapped about his eyes.

He'd only just pulled it off when a voice spoke from the doorway, startling them both.

"How's it look?" Treville's voice was calm, betraying none of his feelings. Porthos heard his footsteps as he entered the room properly.

Aramis's fingers brushed the skin beside his eyes, tipping his head. "No different," he murmured at last, sweeping is fingers apologetically along Porthos's jaw as he pulled back.

"Surely it's too soon to tell?" Treville asked.

"Oh, of course," Aramis replied. "I wouldn't expect to see any improvements for at least a week or more." He carefully rewound the bandages.

Porthos's heart sank at the words, but he felt a surge of gratitude at the transparent certainty in Aramis's voice. There was not a doubt in his mind that Porthos would recover.

"Very well. I can give you at least a week of leave, Aramis. After that, I'll try to keep you on light duties until Porthos recovers."

"You all sound very sure I will," Porthos murmured, his voice rough with gratitude at the hope they were nurturing in his breast.

A heavy hand dropped to his shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. "I expect to see you back at the garrison before we've had time to enjoy the peace and quiet," Treville told him. "Now I'd best get to the trial."

Porthos mumbled a farewell as the captain left. The bed dipped as Aramis dropped down beside him, pressed close to his side.

"If you really don't wish to walk any more for the time being, I could read to you," he suggested softly.

"I haven't got many books," Porthos said doubtfully.

Aramis's soft chuckle rumbled through him. "I had D'Artagnan fetch some from my lodgings."

Porthos smiled at last, a weight lifting from his spirit. "Go on, then," he murmured, wrapping an arm about Aramis's waist and pulling him onto his lap as he shifted to sit with the headboard at his back. "Read me a story."

Aramis curled against him, stretching out to grab a book, and then his voice began to fill Porthos's head with all the images his eyes couldn't see.

* * *

><p>The mornings were the worst. No matter what he had told himself the night before, he could never hold back the hope that this time, when he opened his eyes, he'd be able to see Aramis lying beside him. And every morning, the blackness crushed him anew.<p>

They'd fallen into a routine of sorts. Every morning Aramis would ask how he felt, and the edge of hope in his voice cut at Porthos like a knife, but he couldn't bring himself to quash it. He'd struggle with getting dressed on his own and putter around the room like a clumsy child. Aramis had been forced to move all easily breakable things to the cupboards, and yet he still tried to insist Porthos was doing well.

The problem was he didn't want to be doing well. He didn't want to learn to cope with the perpetual darkness. He had seen the blind beggars in the court, the ones who were really blind. He couldn't become like them, wretched and alone, dependent on the kindness of strangers for his very survival.

Helpless.

He'd told Aramis to stop checking his eyes every day. He couldn't take the disappointment of hearing, day after day, that there seemed to be no change. He wondered if the blood in his eyes looked as frightening as it sounded.

Porthos rolled over on the bed, hoping to catch hold of Aramis and drive such thoughts from his head, but the space beside him was empty. He sat up, frowning, and realized someone was moving about the room.

"Oh," came Aramis's voice from somewhere near the door. "You're awake."

"Yeah," Porthos said carefully, wishing he could see him as he rolled his legs off the bed and stood. Footsteps approached and took his hand, guiding him over to the wardrobe, and he fought the urge to growl. He hated needing Aramis's help, but he couldn't refuse it, either.

"What's goin' on?" he asked gruffly as he fumbled with ties he couldn't see, trying to lace up his breeches on his own.

Aramis was silent for a long moment. "A message came this morning," he said, his voice sounding too controlled. "Treville wants me at the garrison."

Porthos inhaled sharply, reaching out for something to anchor himself against. He'd known it was coming. Aramis couldn't waste his time, sitting here all day with him, when there was Musketeer business to attend to.

The world was moving on without him.

"I'm going to tell him it's too soon," he said softly, and Porthos felt a hand on his shoulder.

He took a deep breath and shook his head, every instinct screaming at him to accept the lifeline, to do anything to keep Aramis here with him, but he couldn't do that. He couldn't make him stay just because he didn't want to be alone.

"No, you won't," he said with all the strength he could muster. "It's been a week, Aramis. My head is healed. I c'n walk without fallin' over. You got more important things to do than nurse me."

He knew Aramis was opening his mouth, preparing to object, so he cut him off, refusing to allow Aramis to change his mind. "You know I'm right. Just because I'm useless doesn't mean Treville can afford to let you be."

"You are not useless," Aramis said, and Porthos almost took a step back at the ferocity of the words. They sparked through him like fire. "You are not useless, Porthos. Never say that again."

Despite himself, Porthos lips crept into a grateful smile. Perhaps if Aramis could believe it so fervently, it might one day be true.

"Alright," he said gently, hands finding Aramis's hips through muscle memory alone. He was grateful for that, at least. His body remembered what his eyes couldn't see, like exactly where Aramis's waist would be in relation to his own, or where his to find his lips.

Aramis stepped into his embrace with a sigh, and Porthos found himself feeling a bit guilty. He was so wrapped up in his own worries that he'd never once thought of the strain this would be putting on his lover. He couldn't stop being blind, but he didn't have to be an ass about it.

"Hopefully I've just come up on the duty roster for the palace," Aramis murmured, burying his face against Porthos's neck.

Porthos hummed in assent but couldn't help thinking that Treville wouldn't be calling him in for anything so simple. He had a feeling this was a much bigger mission.

Aramis pressed a kiss to his neck and drew back. "I'll be home soon," he said, voice heavy with regret and something that sounded worryingly like exhaustion. "You'll be alright for a few hours?"  
>Porthos swallowed a snappish remark and forced a smile. "Course I will."<p>

Aramis huffed a soft laugh and pressed another kiss to his lips before drawing away. He heard footsteps approach the door, heard the creak as it opened and shut, and then Aramis was gone.

He stayed where he stood for several long minutes, trying to push away the thoughts circling his head about the futility of hope and the likelihood of abandonment. At last he reached out a hand for the wall and followed it with stumbling steps back to the bed. He dropped heavily onto it and sat there, head cradled in his hands, palms rubbing against the soft linen of the bandage.

This was just the beginning. Treville was going to start giving Aramis missions again, and little by little he would lose him to his duty. Aramis wouldn't mean to leave him, he knew that at least, but he wouldn't have a choice. Eventually he'd come to a point where the strain of caring for a helpless blind man would become unsustainable. And he would pull away.

Porthos clenched his hands into fists. Better to resign himself to his fate now.

There was no way to track the time in his condition, so he nearly leapt out of his skin when the door banged open.

"Aramis?" he asked cautiously.

A heavy sigh was his response. A moment later the bed dipped beside him, Aramis's shoulder pressing against his own.

"Where's he sendin' you, then?" he asked quietly.

"The estate of some noble two days outside of Paris." Aramis's voice was thick with remorse, with an edge of guilt that Porthos hated hearing. "The king is gifting him with a pair or prize pistols for some nonsense achievement and has specifically requested I go along to demonstrate their quality. Athos and D'Artagnan too."

"Oh," said Porthos, and really, what more was there to say. There was no way Aramis could get out of this, not if the king himself had asked for him. "When do you leave?"

Aramis's voice was almost too soft to hear. "An hour."

Porthos tipped his head back, trying to breathe around the anger and panic and fear in his throat.

"I'm sor-" Aramis began, but Porthos rose to his feet jerkily, cutting him off.

"We'd best get you packed, then," he said calmly. "I c'n fold things if you hand them to me."

"Porthos…"

"Don't," he said, hating the brittle edge to his own voice. "You gotta go. So don't. Don't apologize."

The bed creaked as Aramis rose to join him. He gathered his things in silence but for the occasional rustle while Porthos mechanically folded anything he was given, trying to wrap his head around the fact that Aramis would be gone for nearly a week.

Finally it was done, and all that was left was to say goodbye. "Constance has promised to come by," Aramis said, the tension evident in his voice. "Do some cooking, I suppose. And I'll ride back as soon as the presentation is over. Treville gave us permission already."

Porthos nodded mutely, making no move to close the gap he knew lay between them. Aramis sigh verged on pained, and his heart clenched in agony, but he had to maintain the distance. It would just make it so much harder later on if he didn't.

"Take care of yourself," Aramis murmured, stepping in to place a brief kiss against his cheek. "I love you." Then he was gone.

Porthos sat back down on the bed and let darkness consume him.

* * *

><p>Constance came by every morning and evening. He tried to be cheerful and attentive to her conversation, but he knew by the end of the first day that he wasn't fooling her. She didn't push him, though, and he found himself looking forward to her visits for no other reason than that he didn't have to try so hard pretending to be okay.<p>

He spent the days wandering the room, pacing it out until he knew where everything was and could walk around without bumping into things. He found his sword in the closet and managed to sharpen it without cutting off a finger, which lifted his spirits a bit.

All the same, the days had dragged by with agonizing slowness, and it was a constant fight to stave off the depression that crept into the corners of his mind.

Five nights after Aramis had left, Porthos was dozing on the bed, feeling pleasantly full from the dinner he'd shared with Constance and less dispirited than was usual lately. He was on the verge of dropping off entirely when footsteps pounded heavily on the stairs.

He sat bolt upright, excitement flashing through him at the thought of Aramis, home at last. He clambered off the bed, all thoughts of distancing himself forgotten.

The door flew open and he startled slightly, unprepared for the violent sound.

"Aramis?" he asked, confusion seeping into his tone.

"Porthos."

He stumbled forward, fear pulsing through him suddenly, because that was Athos, _Athos_, and where was Aramis?

"What happened?" he croaked even as he heard fresh steps on the stairs, slower and dragging.

"We were ambushed on the way home. Bandits" Athos's voice was grim as he stepped forward and grabbed Porthos's forearm in a tight grasp. "Aramis took a bullet."

"Where?" he hissed, but Athos had released him and was pushing him aside, and the voices at the door were asking 'where?' with breathless voices, as if carrying something heavy, and he wanted to rush forward, but he couldn't _see_.

"On the bed," Athos ordered as still more footsteps echoed up the stairs.

"I've found the surgeon," D'Artagnan's voice cried, and then there were more orders as whoever had been carrying Aramis left the room and the surgeon stepped up. Past caring about his dignity, Porthos stumbled forward, reaching blindly until he found the bed post, but when he lowered his hand towards where he knew Aramis's must be, the surgeon whacked it aside.

A hand on his shoulder pulled him away and pressed him into a chair as Athos murmured, "Let him work."

Everything in Porthos was screaming to disregard that order. He couldn't see the damage, couldn't watch to make sure that bastard was doing a good job sewing him up, and now he couldn't even hold his hand?

Athos must have sensed his distress, for the hand returned, a comforting weight on his shoulder.

"Where?" he asked, his voice catching in his throat.

"Shoulder," Athos said tiredly. "We bound it as best we could, but he couldn't sew it with his left hand, so we had to come back. Fever started just outside the city. Hasn't woken since."

"How bad?"

Athos's hesitation terrified him to his core. "Not good."

Porthos didn't ask any more questions.

All he could think about was how cold he had been before Aramis left, how bloody ungrateful and distant. He'd thought he was protecting himself from future loss, but he hadn't shielded himself from this, and the pain was all the worse knowing Aramis must have thought Porthos angry at him for leaving.

He didn't know how long it was before the surgeon finally spoke again. "I've done all I can. The wound is clean and sewn. Keep his fever down and he should pull through."

Porthos let out an explosive breath and heard D'Artagnan's relieved sigh from across the room. As soon as the surgeon left he rose to his feet and crossed to the bed, glad now he had taken the time to learn the room.

A chair scraped behind him and then Athos pushed him gently down to sit beside the bed. He reached out blindly, his fingers brushing against overly warm skin, and he followed it until his fingers found Aramis's own.

"Porthos, I need to leave," Athos said quietly. He sounded as terrible as Porthos felt. "Someone needs to warn the king that the route home is unsafe."

Porthos's mind felt blanketed by a haze of guilt, but he shook himself out of it long enough to murmur, "You ain't goin' alone. Take D'Artagnan."

"One of us should stay here," Athos said wearily.

"No. No way you're goin' by yourself through an area full o' bandits. Take 'im. Between me an' Constance, we can get 'im sorted."

He could feel Athos's hesitation, but shattered as he was he was not going to back down. Aramis was already injured. He couldn't bear for anyone else to get hurt.

"Very well. We will spend the night here, if you don't mind, and leave first thing in the morning."

Porthos nodded mutely and listened to the sounds of his brothers making themselves comfortable on the floor as he clung to Aramis's limp fingers.

Only when the sounds ceased did he lower his head to rest on the bed beside Aramis's hand and whisper a litany of apologies into the darkness.

* * *

><p><strong>Soooo that was actually unexpected. None of this was in my original outline for this story. Does it work? Let me know in the reviews! <strong>

**One part to go.**


	7. La Cécité Part III

**AN: We've reached the final part! I set out with this prompt expecting to bang out 2,000 words or so and instead wrote this angsty behemoth. Hope you've all enjoyed! I'm now working on a ridiculously fluffy oneshot to deal with all the angst, so I'll try to get that up sometime soon.**

* * *

><p>Porthos had no way of knowing when he'd fallen asleep, or how long he'd slept for. His head was resting uncomfortably on his folded arms, propped against the side of the bed. Snoring rose from somewhere behind him, letting him know one of his brothers was still in the room.<p>

The sleeper snorted and he allowed a grin to break through the worry still gripping him. Athos, then. Perhaps D'Artagnan had gone to visit Constance.

He shifted off the bed, neck cracking painfully, and was just about to sit back when Aramis's fingers tightened around his own.

He froze, breath catching in his throat. "Aramis?" he asked softly. "You awake?"

This time a groan accompanied the squeeze. "Hey." Aramis's voice was faint and he sounded exhausted, but Porthos couldn't fight back his grin at hearing him awake.

"Hey yourself," he replied, his free hand tracing up Aramis's arm until his fingers found his cheek, stroking the skin gently. "How do you feel?"

He heard cloth rustling as Aramis tried to shift on the bed, followed by a sharp intake of breath. "Lie still, you idiot," he chided, letting his hand fall to the side of Aramis's neck. "You've got a hole in your shoulder."

"Ah, now I remember," Aramis muttered, sounding more put out than pained. Porthos grinned at the petulant tone, the familiarity of the routine easing some of the guilt still raging in his chest.

"So, how'd the doctor do sewin' you up? I tried my best to look threatenin', but it's harder when I can't see who I'm glarin' at." He summoned a smile, hoping Aramis wouldn't see how hard it was for him to joke about this. He would do it, though, if he could keep Aramis from worrying about him when he should be healing.

Aramis chuckled faintly, accepting the lame attempt, and Porthos's smile softened into something truer. "I think he's done well enough," Aramis murmured. "I can't get the bandage off one handed to look more closely."

"Ah, well," Porthos said uncomfortably, "Better wait till Athos wakes up." He tried unsuccessfully not to be bothered by how little use he could be to Aramis like this. "I can wake him now, if you like?"

"No, don't bother. Let him sleep." Aramis's voice sounded a bit raspy, and Porthos debated reaching it to see if Athos had left any water on the table beside the bed. Then he scowled, realizing he'd probably just knock it over with his blind fumbling.

"You look troubled," Aramis murmured, squeezing his fingers. "What's wrong?"

_Well, I'm blind and useless and a pathetic excuse for a man, but other than that, everything's great_, Porthos thought bitterly.

Aloud, he said, "I wanted to apologize."

"For what?"

"Before you left. I was…" he hesitated, seeking the right word, "-cold."

"Don't fret about it, _querido_." Aramis twisted his hand slightly so he could lace his fingers through Porthos's. "It's fine."

"No, it isn't," he growled, losing hold on the frustration coiled within him. "You forgivin' me doesn't make it okay. I'm mad all the time and I'm takin' it out on you. That ain't right!"

"Porthos, I understand," Aramis began, but a harsh cough cut him off. Porthos tensed, on the verge of searching for water, sight be damned, when the snoring from behind cut off abruptly. He heard the footsteps approach, and then Athos's soft voice ordering Aramis to drink. After a moment the coughing stopped.

"Thank you, _mon cher_," Aramis rasped.

"You should be resting." Porthos could _feel_ the glare the accompanied those words.

"We were just discussing something-"

"It's alright," Porthos said quickly, cutting him off. "You should rest."

He could sense Aramis watching him unhappily, but he didn't argue as Athos returned to his chair. Porthos felt as if the silence were pressing down on him, reminding him of his failures. For one terrible moment, his brain clutched at the thought that perhaps this was what it would be like to be deaf as well. Then a faint pressure on his fingers broke him from his reverie.

He cocked his head, waiting, and sure enough it came again: a gentle tug. He grinned ruefully, shaking his head. It appeared he was not going to be allowed to wallow.

"All right, all right, I'm comin'," he muttered fondly, carefully patting the mattress before him to map out the vacant space in his head. Once he was satisfied with the lay of the land, he rose and moved slowly and carefully onto the bed.

It was difficult enough to move around with Aramis in the bed while blind. Knowing he was injured made it a dozen times worse. More than once, his hand caught Aramis's side, eliciting hissed breaths, but each time Aramis's hand found his arm and tugged him again. He almost gave up entirely when his bumped Aramis's injured arm, winced at the muffled groan, but at last he found a position where he could settle himself on the bed.

He wrapped an arm carefully around his lover and pulled him close, letting Aramis rest his head in the crook of his neck. Aramis nuzzled closer and drifted off almost at once, but Porthos knew already he wouldn't be following. He couldn't relax; he was too worried that he would bump Aramis's wound in the night and tear his stiches, or injure him further somehow. He didn't even dare hold him properly, arm resting gingerly around him since he couldn't see where exactly the wound was.

Aramis shifted in his sleep and Porthos froze, wondering if the new position was putting strain on the injury. Self-hatred was boiling like acid in his stomach. It wasn't enough to be useless as a Musketeer: he was useless as a lover, too.

And if he couldn't even do this, then what the hell could he do?

* * *

><p>Aramis's restless shifting woke him the next morning. He lay still, hoping Aramis would find a comfortable position and settle down, until an elbow found his side.<p>

"Oi!" he growled, remembering only at the last minute not to shove Aramis off him.

"Sorry, _mon cher_," Aramis murmured. Porthos tracked the sound of his voice and lifted a hand carefully to his face, breathing a sigh of relief when he found Aramis's skin a normal temperature. "I think I need to get up."

"Dunno if that's a good idea," Porthos muttered, a vision of Aramis falling because he couldn't see to catch him flashing behind his sightless eyes. "Is Athos still here?"

"He left when I woke up without a fever," Aramis said. "D'Artagnan was here as well. He said Constance would come by later, and I quote, 'Make sure I wasn't overtaxing myself in the foolish way Musketeers always do.' The lad had the gall to laugh at that."

Porthos chuckled, carefully pulling his arm free. He would've preferred Aramis continue resting until Constance arrived, but he knew there was little chance of that happening. Better he help him as best he could then let Aramis knock himself out doing something stupid on his own.

He sat up, yanking the bandage back up so it sat right around his eyes, and heard Aramis scrambling upright behind him. "Slowly," he growled when he heard a hiss of pain. "Why is it you never follow your own advice when you get injured?"

"I'm _fine_." Aramis's voice was laden with exasperation. "Please move so I can get out of this blasted bed."

"Thought you liked my bed," Porthos teased gently, the banter helping to alleviate his worries of the night before.

"Only when we are both in it willingly," Aramis huffed. "Not when I am a prisoner."

"You ain't a prisoner," Porthos snorted, but at last he obliged, shifting off the bed to hover uncertainly beside it. He heard Aramis's feet thump against the ground a moment before fingers tangled in his own.

"If you fall down I'm gonna be pissed," he warned, grasping Aramis's forearm as he rose. "I'm trustin' you here."

Aramis gave a huff of annoyance. "I just want to get to that mirror on the wall, _querido_. I'd like to see what that butcher did to my shoulder."

"It's cracked," Porthos muttered, wincing at the reminder that he'd failed to make sure the stitches were up to Aramis's standard.

"Yes, I know. Remind me how that happened, again." His voice had roughened considerably, but not with pain.

Porthos couldn't help but grin at the memory. "I seem to recall you wantin' to be up against the wall while I fucked you," he growled. "The mirror didn't take too kindly to that. You oughta buy me a new one."

Aramis laughed delightedly, leaning heavily on him as they made their way across the small room. Porthos chuckled as well, but his mirth faded quickly. Would he ever be able to do that again? What good was a blind man as a lover?

He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he almost didn't realize they were approaching the wall until Aramis tugged on his arm. "Hold still while I check it, alright?" Aramis muttered, sounding distracted.

Porthos nodded, his head still full of thoughts of losing the uncontainable passion that was Aramis from his life. He'd never thought about what his blindness would do to that aspect of their relationship.

His heart pounded unpleasantly in his chest as he realized he wouldn't be able to do even a fraction of the things he once had in the bedroom. Aramis might take pity on him for a time, but how long would he be willing to shoulder all the work for so little reward?

Porthos was going to need someone to take care of him for the rest of his life. How long could Aramis persevere when Porthos couldn't even offer anything to soften the load? All his fears the day Aramis had been sent on the mission seemed to be rushing back at once, knocking the wind from his lungs. He had already lost his duty and his life as a soldier. He couldn't lose Aramis too.

Or worse, Aramis would work himself to exhaustion trying to care for him and get himself killed in battle because he wasn't caring for himself. No matter how Porthos looked at it, the future grew more and more grim.

Oh god. He was going to lose him.

A hand connected sharply with the side of his face and he jerked back, surprised to find himself on the floor. "Porthos, answer me!" Aramis was ordering, his voice just shy of terror once more.

"S-sorry," he choked out, his breath coming in harsh gasps as his heart attempted to hammer out of his chest. He was suddenly aware of the way Aramis's hands were fisted in the collar of his shirt. Had he been shaking him?

"What happened?" Aramis asked, not releasing his grip. "Was it your head? Did it hurt?"

Porthos shook his head mutely, not sure how to explain the crippling fear that had gripped his heart. He felt weak, helpless, and utterly lost, as if the panic that flooded him had been a physical thing.

"No, I just- I thought-" He couldn't seem to get the words out. "Let me up."

Aramis didn't move. "Thought what?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm enough to tell Porthos he wouldn't leave without a satisfactory answer.

Porthos blew out a heavy breath, fighting down a surge of rage. He didn't want to get in a fight. Aramis didn't deserve his anger, he didn't deserve any of this, but Porthos felt out of control. Thoughts he'd forced himself to repress seemed to be bursting within his mind. He took a deep breath in, trying to settle himself.

To his shame, the air seemed to catch in his throat, and what came out could only be described as a whine.

A shudder rocked his body, and then another. He tried to pull free of Aramis's grasp, hating that he was showing such weakness. Hurt pumped through him when Aramis let him go, but then an arm wrapped around his waist and another around his neck, drawing him inexorably forward until his face met Aramis's chest.

It was as if the simple gesture had unleashed a flood within him. A sob ripped its way from his throat with a violence that shocked him.

His arms rose of their own accord to wrap around Aramis's waist, clinging to him as if he were a lifeline in a storm at sea. He buried his face against Aramis's shirt and let the fear and grief wash through him. All the emotions that had been roiling inside him: pain, anger, fear; and he hadn't allowed himself to grieve, to face what had happen and understand, truly, that this might be his life now.

Aramis held him as he fell apart.

Eventually he quieted. He could feel the thumping of Aramis's heart through his chest, and the sound soothed the wrenching sobs. He wanted to sit back, reclaim some dignity, but he felt utterly drained. He couldn't remember ever crying like that before.

Porthos lifted a hand to rub at the bandage around his eyes. It was unpleasantly wet and cold against his skin, and after a moment Aramis shifted, fingers reaching up to undo the knot holding it to his head.

He sighed his thanks when it slipped free, tipping his head to find a more comfortable positon. He drew back sharply when Aramis let out a soft hiss.

"Shit. Sorry, did I hit your wound?" he asked, his voice rough and cracked.

"It's nothing."

"Liar," he growled wearily, scrunching his eyes tightly closed. He thought for a moment that he saw spots dancing against his eyelids, but then Aramis shifted and he put the thought aside. "Get back up on the bed."

"Come with me," Aramis said stubbornly.

Porthos sighed and nodded, too exhausted and ashamed of himself to argue. He allowed Aramis to lead him back to the bed and settle them both under the blankets.

He lay silently for a long moment before the words tore out of him. "Sorry about that, I shouldn't have-"

"Don't you dare apologize," Aramis said fiercely. "Don't you dare. Keeping that all inside must have been killing you."

"Shouldn't have broken down like that," Porthos muttered, shame still creeping through him. "It was weak."

Aramis made an irritated noise. "Is it weak to wake up screaming because your nightmares are full of death?" he asked, voice hard and matter of fact. "Is it weak to be unable to sleep in forests in the winter?"

"Course not!" Porthos growled, a little stunned at the violence of his own reply. A moment later he sensed Aramis's victorious smirk as clearly as if he had seen it.

"Then it is not weak to be afraid of this," he said calmly.

Porthos rolled onto his side, pressing against Aramis's body. "Do you really think there's still a chance it ain't permanent?" he whispered, impossible hope blooming in his chest.

"Yes, I do." The certainty in Aramis's voice nearly caused him to cry anew. Swallowing the urge, he nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Exhaustion overcame him, driving him further into Aramis's warm embrace.

He fell asleep to the feel of fingers stroking down the side of his face.

* * *

><p>When he awoke, he could tell by Aramis's breathing that his lover was already awake. "Constance came by while you were asleep," Aramis murmured, fingers skimming along his jaw. "She gave me the quietest scolding I have ever received."<p>

Porthos chuckled, wishing he'd heard it. He lifted his head from where it had been resting on Aramis's chest and, for the first time in nearly two weeks, opened his eyes, trying to blink away the unpleasant, glued together sensation.

Aramis's gasp had him jumping back convinced he'd inadvertently hurt the other man. Somehow. Without moving.

"What? What?" he asked anxiously.

"Your eyes," Aramis breathed.

"What about 'em?" Anxiety was clawing a hole in his stomach, but he kept his voice steady. "Worse?" He wasn't sure how they could get worse than appearing to be bleeding from within, but he couldn't dismiss the fear.

"No," Aramis murmured, something like wonder in his tone. "They look better. Much better. The blood is gone. Hang on; it's too dark to see properly. I need to light a candle."

Porthos didn't protest as Aramis clambered awkwardly over him, even though he knew the other man should still be resting. He was too eager to know what qualified as _better_.

He heard a few muffled curses and then a triumphant little huff. "Turn around and let me look at them in the light," Aramis ordered. He obeyed, rolling onto his other side and sitting up.

He blinked.

And blinked again.

"Aramis," he whispered, his voice strangled by a hope that seemed to clutch him by the throat. "I c'n see you."

The indistinct shadow that was Aramis jerked suddenly closer. "You can?" he asked, his voice trembling with excitement. "How well?"

"Not- not well," he muttered, blinking furiously. "But I c'n see a sort of shadowy thing, which I think is you, and I c'n see a haze that might be the candle?"

"Over here?" Aramis asked, and the shadow waved a blurred appendage in the direction of the haze.

"Yeah," he replied shakily. "Yeah, over there."

Aramis's laugh was like sunlight streaming out past thunderclouds, and suddenly the shadow-shape launched forward and crashed against him.

"Oi! Don't hurt yourself," Porthos growled, but his own lips were pulling up at the corners, hope and relief making him lightheaded.

"You can see, _mon cher_!" Aramis cried, and then Aramis's lips were on his own, kissing him as if his life depended on it, and Porthos was more than happy to respond in kind.

They only broke apart when they heard footsteps on the stairs.

"Two pairs," Aramis whispered against his lips. "Think they're back?"

Porthos grinned. "Lemme try to guess which one's come through first, yeah?" Aramis tried to shift out of his lap, but Porthos just clamped his fingers more tightly around Aramis's hips, chuckling. It was nothing their brother's hadn't seen before.

The door opened quietly, and he looked in the direction of the doorway to see two shadows enter at once. The one on the right was slightly taller.

"Athos," he murmured, staring pointedly at the left shadow before shifting his gaze to the right. "D'Artagnan."

"Can you see us?" D'Artagnan's voice was high with sudden excitement as the right hand shadow bounded forward. Athos followed more slowly, saying nothing.

"A bit," Porthos said, grinning from ear to ear. "You just look like a big shadowy streak right now."

"But you can see us?" Athos asked intently.

"Yeah, I can."

The shadow that was Athos sat down heavily into what Porthos suspected was one of his chairs. "Thank god." The relief in his tone was dizzying. He said nothing else, stoic as always, but Porthos could almost feel the waves of gratitude and happiness rolling across the room.

"Is it certain then? He will regain full vision?" Athos asked, actively trying to strangle the hope seeping into his tone.

"The king's physician said that if the blood cleared and vision began to return, then it was almost certain to heal entirely," Aramis told him eagerly. "It may take a another week or more to return to full vision, but now that it has begun to return, there is nothing to suggest it shouldn't return fully."

Porthos grinned and buried his face against Aramis's chest, hoping anyone who saw his glistening eyes would blame it on the healing process.

"That's wonderful news!" D'Artagnan cried, still bounding around like an overzealous shadow puppy.

"Perhaps you should go and tell the Captain," Athos muttered when the shadowy blob almost collided with his own.

"Oh, right, of course!" D'Artagnan babbled. "I'll tell the Captain, and Constance, and the whole garrison!" The blob moved to the door and vanished.

Aramis chuckled affectionately, nuzzling against Porthos's neck. As if only just noticing his perch, Athos suddenly asked dryly, "Isn't that a bit more activity than you should be partaking in?"

Porthos winced at the reminder, suddenly worried Aramis might be overexerting himself, but Aramis only laughed.

"I am fine, _mon cher_," he said lightly. "The wound is not bad. I was only in such a bad way because I was exhausted. Thankfully, that has been cured."

The shadow-Athos rose. "In that case, I shall take my leave and go make my report to the Captain as well. He should be back from the palace by now."

"You don't want to stay?" Porthos asked, a bit surprised that Athos would leave so soon after receiving the good news.

He sensed Athos casting him one of his signature glares. "With Aramis's newfound 'energy' and you regaining the use of your eyes, no I would rather not be in your _bedroom_ at the moment," he muttered. "I'll come by for dinner."  
>He left without another word.<p>

Porthos stared at the place where the shadow had disappeared for a long moment, puzzling over the odd statement until Aramis chuckled darkly against his neck, pressing a kiss to his skin.

Oh.

"I've missed you, _querido_," Aramis murmured, shifting pointedly in his lap. "Two weeks is a long time to wait."

_Oh_.

He grinned and tipped his head in the direction of the fuzzy outline of Aramis's hair, pressing his lips to his lover's temple.

"Maybe we oughta make up for lost time," he whispered, dipping lower to capture Aramis's lips in a kiss.

Aramis's enthusiastic hum of agreement was music to his ears.

* * *

><p><strong>I hope you've all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Let me know in the reviews!<strong>


	8. La Maladie

**Aramis comes down with a fever. Porthos takes care of him and wonders why illness can turn grown men into petulant children.**

* * *

><p>"Porthos!" Treville's angry shout had him jerking to attention at his desk, hastily shoving the miniature Eiffel Tower he'd been constructing out of paper clips into a convenient drawer.<p>

"Sir?" he called back, ignoring the clatter as the paper clip creation shattered inside his desk. He shoved himself up hastily and headed towards Treville's office. This early in the morning, what could he possibly have done wrong?

"Yes, sir?" he asked, pausing in the doorway. Treville waved him inside.

"Porthos," he began in a tone that suggested years and years of long-suffering frustration, "where is Aramis?"

Porthos frowned at him. "He's not in?"

Treville looked up sharply. "You didn't know," he muttered at last. "No, he isn't in. He's supposed to be reporting about the Montclair case this afternoon, and he isn't answering his phone."

"Alright," Porthos said, shifting uneasily. It wasn't like Aramis to skip work without calling. "What do you want me to do?"

Treville leveled him with a baleful look. "You've got no cases. Go find him. I need that report."

"Of course, sir," Porthos said, turning away quickly to hide his smirk at the poorly concealed concern in Treville's order.

He called a goodbye to Athos on the way out, ignoring the expression that clearly said _where are you going don't leave me alone with the puppy_ while D'Artagnan waved a cheerful farewell.

Porthos tried Aramis's cell phone as he made his way through the garage to his car, and then his house when he didn't pick up, but still got no response. He frowned at the phone and may or may not have broken the speed limit on his way to Aramis's apartment.

This would be so much easier if Porthos had just finished moving in last weekend like he was supposed to. Maybe putting off packing to play Mario Kart had been a bad idea.

Thankfully, Aramis lived only twenty minutes from the station. His car was in its spot, which eased some of Porthos's worry. He was probably still home, then.

He hurried up to the apartment and let himself in with his key. "Aramis?" he called, locking it again behind him. "You home?"

There was no response. He stuck his head around the corner to check the kitchen before moving to the living room, but there was no sign of Aramis, or even that he'd been up today at all. The light on the answering machine was beeping, and his cell phone was lying on a pillow on the couch. Aramis always forgot to grab it before he went to bed.

Porthos picked it up and frowned at the cheerful device with its Game of Thrones case. Aramis kept his alarms on his phone, so most mornings consisted of loud beeps emanating from wherever he'd left it last night as he climbed over Porthos, cursing, to turn it off. It must have gone off this morning, so why was it still here?

He stuck it in his pocket and hurried to the bedroom, flicking on the lights when he saw the shades were still drawn. A pitiful moan arose from a pile of blankets when the lights flared.

"Turn it off," Aramis mumbled, the pile of blankets shifting pathetically.

Porthos ignored the request. "Oi, what're you still doing in bed?" he asked, striding over. "Treville was worried when you didn't call." He reached out and tried to tug the blankets back, but Aramis held on stubbornly.

At last he located Aramis's head amid the blankets and laid a hand on his cheek. "You're burnin' up," he muttered, concern spiking through him only to be tempered by irritation. "You idiot. Why didn't you call me?"

"Phone's not here," Aramis mumbled, trying to hitch the blankets higher. "And I didn't want to bother you."

Porthos rolled his eyes heavenward. "You'll be the death of me, you will." Aramis shifted under the blankets but didn't refute it. "Right, you stay here. I'll call Treville and tell him what's 'appened."

He stepped into the hallway and called the station. Treville gruffly ordered him to take the day off and make sure Aramis took care of himself, saying nothing about the report. He smirked as he hung up. The captain was notoriously protective of his men.

"Got the day off," he said as he walked back into the bedroom. "Guess I get t' play nurse."

Aramis shuffled about under the covers until his eyes peeped out. "You're staying?" he asked hopefully.

Porthos chuckled, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Yeah, dummy, I'm stayin'. Now come outta there."

Aramis grumbled but obliged, pushing the blankets down past his chin. His cheeks were flushed and his forehead was beaded with sweat. He looked the picture of misery.

'First things first, what hurts?" he asked, pressing his hand to Aramis's forehead again.

"Everything," Aramis sniffled. "Everything hurts and I'm dying." He flopped back dramatically against the pillows.

Porthos prayed for patience, eyeing Aramis pointedly until he relented and muttered, "My head and my throat and my stomach."

He raised an eyebrow at the list of symptoms. "Where did you even catch this?"

"Martine visited with Sophie," Aramis mumbled.

"You got it from your niece? That's just cruel." Porthos rose from the bed. "I'll get some medicine and water, eh? Think you can eat somethin'?"

Aramis moaned pathetically and yanked the blankets up once more. "Yeah? Tough. I'll find some soup."

Aramis muttered something about 'tyrant' as he walked back to the kitchen, but Porthos just chuckled and ignored him. He should have expected Aramis would be a difficult patient, but he'd never imagined he'd be this petulant.

He raided Aramis's medicine cabinet for anything that might reasonably help with his symptoms and snagged a thermometer as an afterthought before filling a glass of water. He juggled it all awkwardly as he made his way back to the bedroom only to find Aramis sprawled across the giant bed, sheets and blankets a tangled mess on the floor.

"What'd you do that for?" he asked.

"I got hot," Aramis muttered, curling up on his side. "Kill me."

"Don't tempt me," Porthos chuckled, picking his way over the blankets to reach the bed. "Take these. They'll help."

Aramis gave him a look that told him he was the worst person ever but swallowed the pills with only token cajoling, finishing the glass of water along with them. He squawked when Porthos stuck the thermometer in his mouth but suffered the indignity, glaring all the while.

"102," Porthos muttered, squinting at the tiny numbers. "Definitely a fever."

"It's probably the plague."

"It ain't the plague," Porthos growled. "Don't be a baby."

Aramis pouted at him. "Where's my soup?"

"For the love of- I thought you didn't want it?" Porthos sighed.

"Now I do."

"Fine. Stay here." He got to his feet and left, fighting the urge to toss a pillow that had fled the bed into Aramis's face.

"He's the tyrant," he muttered mutinously as he rummaged through the cupboards, locating a tin of tomato soup. He dumped it in a bowl and stuck it in the microwave, filling another cup with water as it heated.

As soon as the soup was warm, he grabbed it and headed back to the bedroom. Aramis looked around as he entered.

"You were gone so long," he sighed dramatically. "I thought you left me."

"I was tempted," Porthos told him, not quite able to say it with a straight face. "Here. Soup."  
>He waited until Aramis was sitting up to plop the bowl carefully in his lap. Aramis looked at it oddly for a moment before his eyes flashed up. 'Thanks," he said meekly. Before Porthos could respond beyond a blank stare, Aramis dug into the soup.<p>

Porthos got up to gather the fallen blankets, a little thrown by what had just happened. Did Aramis think he needed thanks? Wasn't taking care of one another when ill something boyfriends were supposed to do?

He dumped the blankets on the bed, realizing as he did so that he had never been in this situation before. He'd never had anyone to take care of apart from himself.

"I'm done," Aramis muttered, cutting off his train of thought. He shifted uncomfortable on the bed.

"What?" Porthos asked, grabbing the fallen pillow and tossing it on the pile.

"Nothing," Aramis said hurriedly, shifting so his legs hung off the side. Before Porthos could prepare himself, Aramis stumbled to his feet and promptly staggered into the wall.

"What the fuck?" Porthos growled, grabbing him before he could do himself any harm. "Where're you goin'?"

Aramis's face flushed darker. "Bathroom," he mumbled.

Porthos sighed. "You're too stubborn for your own good," he grumbled. "You could ask for help."

Aramis shoulders slumped. "Fine. Will you help me?"

"See how easy that was?" Porthos teased, wrapping an arm around his waist. He nudged Aramis with his hip to remind him there was no need to be embarrassed and was rewarded when a tiny grin lifted Aramis's lips.

The trip to the bathroom proved uneventful, since Aramis insisted he could handle it once inside the door. Porthos wasn't inclined to argue, not when Aramis's cheeks still flamed from more than just the fever, and waited outside until he was finished.

The toilet flushed, but the door didn't open. Porthos stepped closer, and sure enough, a moment later he could hear Aramis retching. He gave him a moment before pushing open the door.

"Least you hit the toilet," he said cheerfully, tugging Aramis to his feet. "Mostly. You done for now?" Aramis shot him a miserable glare but nodded and allowed himself to be led back to the bed.

Once there, he curled into a ball, looking absolutely wretched as Porthos carefully covered him with blankets again. His previous energy seemed to have deserted him, leaving him huddled in a ball beneath the covers, coughing painfully.

Porthos hovered uncertainly, not sure what else he could do. He'd brought water, fetched food and medicine, and dealt with the mess in the bathroom. What else did people do in these situations?

He could see that Aramis wasn't asleep. He kept sniffling miserably, probably feeling too ill to actually rest. What he needed was a distraction.

Porthos stepped away from the bed, grinning to himself, and moved over the massive DVD shelf against the wall. He shook his head at Aramis's hopelessly complicated organizational system but eventually located what he was looking for. He popped the DVD in the player and went back to the bed, locating the remote on the nightstand.

Aramis looked around when the music started to play on the menu. "_Tangled_?" he asked hoarsely.

"Yep," Porthos said proudly, pressing the play button. "C'mon. You've been tryin' to get me to watch this for ages."

"Mmmm, true," Aramis murmured, rolling over to face the TV.

Porthos allowed himself a triumphant smile. "Perfect. Now budge up."

"What? No, I'm contagious," Aramis protested, blinking at him when Porthos tried to gently shove him aside, pulling back the blankets.

"Nonsense. I never get sick," Porthos chuckled, finally succeeding in making enough space for himself on the bed. Aramis hesitated only a moment longer before crawling into his arms.

"You cold?" Porthos asked, noting the shivers wracking Aramis's body.

Aramis nodded, burrowing against him as Porthos pulled him closer. "You're warm."

Porthos laughed, shifting so they could both see the TV screen. "Glad I'm good for somethin'."

"Shut up, Flynn Rider is coming," Aramis mumbled tiredly, propping his head up against Porthos's shoulder.

Porthos whistled when the character came on screen. "Hey, 'e looks like you," he murmured, stroking Aramis's hair off his face.

Aramis smiled. "I like to think so," he said a tad smugly. "We're both dashing and handsome adventurers."

Porthos laughed and pressed a kiss to Aramis's too hot forehead. "That you are, love."

Aramis made a contented noise, his earlier recalcitrance forgotten as he snuggled against Porthos's chest. He was asleep in minutes.

Porthos checked he was resting comfortably before sitting back to find out just what was so wonderful about this girl's hair.

* * *

><p>Porthos had watched the movie twice through when Aramis finally woke up. Not that he was going to complain. He'd be humming 'I See the Light' for weeks.<p>

Aramis went from asleep to awake in a matter of seconds. One moment he was out cold across Porthos's chest, the next he was sitting straight up and staring groggily about.

"Hey," Porthos chuckled, resting a hand on Aramis's waist. "You feeling better?"

Aramis turned to look at him, his eyes glassy by the dim light of the TV. "What time is it?" he asked muzzily.

"Bout 5 o'clock," Porthos told him, pushing off the headboard to sit up beside him. He pressed a hand to Aramis's forehead and bit back a curse. He should've given him more medicine hours ago. He hadn't noticed the fever getting worse.

"What? No, no, 'm s'posed to give a report," Aramis mumbled. "I gotta go."

He twisted on the bed, trying to free his legs from the tangle of blankets. He struggled valiantly for a moment before flopping back against the bed, coughing hoarsely.

"You ain't goin' anywhere," Porthos told him firmly, reaching down to pull the blankets back up. "Stay 'ere, I'll grab some cough medicine."

He hopped up and hurried to the medicine cabinet, locating the pills he needed without too much trouble. He was just filling a glass with water when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.

"Aramis, where're you goin'?" he asked, hurrying to set the glass and pills down in the bedroom before dashing out into the hallway. Aramis was halfway to the living room, one blanket wrapped haphazardly about his shoulders, flushed and stumbling but apparently determined to leave.

"Have to report to th' captain," Aramis mumbled, voice slurring. "Montclair case. Important."

"You ain't leavin' while you're sick," Porthos said, trying to keep the exasperation from his voice. He slung an arm around Aramis's waist and directed him to the couch. Aramis collapsed across it with the slightest push but immediately attempted to clamber up again.

"Will you stay down, please?" Porthos muttered. Aramis ignored him, fever bright eyes focused on the door.

"Treville needs my report," he insisted.

"Right," Porthos said, finally hitting his limit. "Up we go." He grabbed Aramis firmly and lifted him into his arms, carrying him struggling back to the bedroom and dumping him carefully on the bed.

"No, Porthos, I need to go," Aramis protested, his voice starting to take on a frantic edge. Porthos stared down at him, at a loss. Then an idea crept into his mind and he sat down heavily on the bed, rubbing dramatically at his temple.

"Ahh, Christ," he muttered, peeking over to see Aramis frozen halfway off the bed, glazed eyes now fixed on him. "M'head."

"Are you alright?" Aramis asked, shifting towards him.

"Not feelin' well all of a sudden," Porthos said, pitching his voice low and hoping it would sound weak. "Don' worry about me, though."

Aramis shifted closer again, reaching out to lay a trembling hand against Porthos's forehead. His fingers were like ice. "You feel hot," Aramis mumbled worriedly, and Porthos had to bite back a grin as his plan unfolded perfectly.

"Sure 'm fine," he said, moving to stand up and swaying intentionally before flopping back down on the bed.

"You're not fine!" Aramis cried, pushing him until he lay on the bed. "Lay down."

Porthos complied, subtly pulling Aramis down with him. "Guess you'll have to stay an' take care o' me," he mumbled.

"I suppose I can give the report tomorrow," Aramis agreed blearily, already sinking down against Porthos's chest as exhaustion caught up to him again. "You should get some rest."

"Mmmm," Porthos hummed, closing his eyes. He waited until Aramis's breathing evened out to open them again, grinning triumphantly as he carefully shifted into a more comfortable position.

Apparently he wasn't quite careful enough. Aramis's eyes cracked open once more. Porthos tensed, ready to fake illness again, but Aramis jut blinked wearily up at him, all thoughts of reporting to Treville seemingly fled.

"You alright?" Porthos murmured, brushing a hand across Aramis's forehead to push his hair out if his eyes. He was still far too hot.

Aramis tipped his head, pressing his face against Porthos's shoulder. "'M cold," he mumbled, voice pitiful and scratchy, "and ev'rything hurts."

Porthos made a soothing noise and pulled him closer, but Aramis wouldn't lie still, shifting restlessly with a miserable expression that made Porthos's chest ache.

"Hey, c'mon, none of that," he murmured when Aramis tried to roll off him unhappily. He shifted so that Aramis's head was resting in the crook of his neck wrapping one arm securely around his waist while stroking his hair gently with his free hand.

Acting on instinct, he began to hum gently under his breath. He couldn't remember all the words from the movie, but he had the melody down. After a few moments, Aramis stopped shifting against him and fell into an exhausted sleep.

Porthos breathed out a relieved breath, careful not to move this time. Aramis needed the sleep. He grabbed the remote and turned the TV, lowering the volume before pressing play on _Tangled_ again.

He couldn't remember falling asleep. The last thing he remembered was Flynn telling Rapunzel she was his new dream. Next thing he knew, he was blinking awake to daylight filtering through the closed curtains and Aramis watching him from where he still lay curled against his chest.

"Mornin'," he yawned, tightening his grip on Aramis's waist.

"Good morning," Aramis murmured. His eyes looked much clearer in the dim light, and when Porthos lifted his hand to his forehead, he found him only slighter warmer than usual.

"How d'you feel?"

Aramis shrugged slightly. "Better."

Porthos frowned at him, curious at the lack of Aramis's usual eloquence. Aramis's eyes dropped as he glanced away.

"What's wrong?" Porthos asked, pushing himself up slightly against the headboard. Aramis tried to shift off him to let him up but Porthos didn't release him.

"Nothing," Aramis said evasively, biting his lip. "I just, ah… thanks. For staying." He'd gone very red by the end of the stammered sentence, refusing to meet Porthos's eye.

"Thought that was what you kept me around for?" Porthos teased, catching hold of Aramis's chin and tilting his head until he met his gaze. "Ain't that what boyfriends do?"

Aramis's lips twitched up. "Well, I wouldn't know."

Porthos tipped his head curiously. "You said you'd dated lots o' people."

"I have. But not, you know… exclusively. Picked them up from bars, but I didn't have real relationships. Never really had anyone around for long. And it's not like I was out at bars, picking up dates when I was ill." He trailed off, a melancholy cast to his features as he smiled sadly. "I was on my own."

Porthos hugged him tighter unconsciously. "I never 'ad anyone to look after before," he rumbled thoughtfully. "S'nice."

Aramis shot him a small smile. "I shall have to return the favor someday."

"Idiot, I didn't do it for that," Porthos snorted. "Besides, I never get sick."

"Lucky," Aramis muttered, pouting a bit.

Porthos chuckled. "What're you complainin' about? You'll get right royal treatment when you're ill. Even if you are a terror."

Aramis smiled ruefully at him. "Was I that bad?"

Porthos nodded, still chuckling. "Worried you might toss the soup at me and escape out the window." Aramis buried his head against Porthos's chest with a mock groan, but Porthos tugged on his waist until he could bend down and kiss him.

He pulled back quickly, remembering too late that Aramis had thrown up last night.

Aramis groaned again as he remembered, running his hands through his tangled and matted curls. "I'm a mess."

"Yeah, but I love you anyway," Porthos grinned cheekily. He lifted his hand to Aramis's forehead again.

"Am I fit for duty?" Aramis asked, rolling his head back up to look at him.

"I dunno," Porthos replied, smirking. "Think maybe you could use another day off. 'S Friday, after all."

Aramis smiled as he caught on. "I'm sure the captain would agree I can't possibly be left on my own."

Porthos grinned broadly. "You go start a shower. I'll call Treville."

As he hurried down the hallway, Aramis popped his head out of the bedroom and called after him, "We should watch _Tangled_ again!"

Porthos glanced back to see him smiling wickedly. "And then maybe you can sing to me, _mon cher_."

"Didn't think you'd remember that," Porthos said gruffly.

Aramis simply laughed, still beaming, and retreated into the bedroom calling something about watching _Frozen_ this weekend after Porthos finished moving in.

Porthos smiled through the brief conversation with Treville, trying to keep the mirth from his voice. He stood in the kitchen after he hung up, still grinning stupidly, until Aramis's voice rang out over the sound of running water, shouting that he'd better hurry up or Aramis was getting in without him.

The prospect of a long weekend in with his boyfriend sounded heavenly right now.

He dashed back to the bathroom and opened the door. Aramis had already climbed into the shower, but from the clothes strewn liberally across the floor, Porthos guessed he was feeling much better.

"Are you coming in or what?" Aramis called impatiently from beyond the shower curtain.

Porthos grinned, stripping down. There was something distinctly feverish in Aramis's tone, and Porthos got the feeling it had nothing to do with his illness.


End file.
